


summer surprised us, coming over the starnbergersee

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, Edge Play, Frottage, Fucking in the Rain, Knives, Letters Never Meant to Be Sent, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, That good shit, but i usually have some choking, probably? can't actually remember, proko REALLY out here into this power exchange, so even if no real choking, spiritual choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: He’sbored,is the problem. He’s so fucking bored, with all the parties slowed to a standstill so everyone can pass their fucking final exams, and he figures he may as well do it. No harm. He’s positive that they’ll end up symbolically burning the letters later or some shit.(AKA, it's a week until graduation and Proko is kind of freaked out. With sexy results.)





	summer surprised us, coming over the starnbergersee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [didaverseend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/didaverseend/gifts).



> For L, based off of her prompt! :) I know it's late, but Merry Christmas!! Also this is probably not what you anticipated getting.

Their senior English teacher is a dried-up debutante with a PhD called  _ the Madame.  _ It’s half a nickname, owing to the fact that her estranged husband, the  _ Monsieur _ , is some big French mafia guy. She’s a total smokeshow, is the thing, and one of those upper echelon faux-hippie feminist types. She smells like weed and designer perfume. He’s pretty sure that Swan’s gonna fuck her before the year’s out, if he keeps up with his British-accent-poetry-reading schtick. Either that, or Skov is gonna suck his dick right there in front of all their classmates. Maybe some combination of both. 

Three weeks before the end of senior year, before the world stops turning and they all go off on the collision course of  _ real fucking life _ , the Madame assigns them some bullshit love-in writing assignment.  _ A letter to someone, telling them something you won’t ever tell them out loud.  _

He’s bored, is the problem. He’s so fucking  _ bored,  _ with all the parties slowed to a standstill so everyone can pass their fucking final exams, and he figures he may as well do it. No harm. He’s positive that they’ll end up symbolically burning them or some shit. The Madame looks like she’d be into a good bonfire. Or maybe a cold shower, by the way she’s leaning so far over Swan’s shoulder that Proko can make out the exact pattern of the lace on her thong through her trousers. Floral. Daisies. 

Typical. 

He doesn’t really have to wonder long about who he’s gonna write to— there’s no one else but K. 

(No one else for him. No one else  _ not  _ for him.) 

He surreptitiously pops half a xannie on a yawn and slumps further in his desk, thighs loose and knees molasses. 

_ Dear K,  _ he writes, and makes a face. Ugh.  _ C’est la vie, _ and all that.  _ Dear Joey.  _ Still not right. Maybe just, like—  _ Joey,  _ he writes, on a new sheet of notebook paper. College-ruled, because he’s not a heathen like Swan. Wide-ruled is for fucking middle schoolers. 

_ Wasn’t even gonna write this shit, but Mdm is gagging for it across the room and I’ve used all my nurse passes for the semester already. Fucking gen ed credits. Why do I need to have four English creds? Bullshit.  _ He’s getting into it, shoulders hunching and gnawing absently at a hangnail on his thumb as he writes. 

_ I don’t want to graduate.  _ He makes another face, because that’s not quite—  _ I don’t want to leave Henrietta. It’s the only place I’ve ever had friends. It’s where we met. I know you’d laugh at me for this shit. I’m laughing at myself, fuck.  _ It’s ridiculous, but somehow it’s relieving the pressure in his chest, unclenching the grip of steadily-mounting panic around his throat.  _ Only you could make a dream with anxiety. Fuck that shit.  _

He steels himself with a breath and looks around the room— Parrish is eyeing Madame and Swan and Skov’s comedy of errors with thinly-veiled disgust, Lynch’s desk is empty, and Jiang is looking back at him with a blank-faced look, his earphones in. Tinny feedback can be heard from them all the way across the room; he’s listening to one of K’s playlists, heavy on the obscenities. 

_ I don’t know what to do without you. I know the other Proko had a life, before. But I don’t want that life. I want to go with you. I want to do whatever you tell me to do. I know I should want more than that. I just don’t.  _ He decides to end it before he gets too deep, scribbles his name at the bottom in a barely-legible scrawl. It’s possibly the first assignment he’s ever actually finished for this class. He skulks up to the front to lay it in the  _ finished  _ tray on the edge of the Madame’s desk. 

It’s done, so Proko forgets about it. That night he gets through studying the first semester of Latin verbiage and K feeds him pink pills as a reward, slipping them onto his tongue with almost-gentle fingers. He kneels between K’s open legs all through his trip, cheek pressed to the seam of K’s jeans and fingers curling uselessly in one ripped-open knee, the edge of his nails catching K’s bony patella. K keeps studying above him, mumbling conversion charts and formulas along to the lo-fi beat playing over the Bluetooth speakers to remember them better. 

He forgets about it, and he passes all his finals, and K throws a huge fucking rager after the commencement ceremony, a wild bacchanalia of fire and drugs and sin, their last hurrah, in the party field that they’d all abandoned  _ en masse  _ after the disaster of their junior year Fourth of July. It feels good to be back. A homecoming, right before they fuck off for good. 

He stumbles around for a while getting fucked up, making the rounds to get all the good gossip to take back to K. Skov and Swan and the Madame are a tangle of limbs and lines in the backseat of Swan’s sexed-up new Lambo, a present from his rich-ass parents for graduating  _ summa cum laude.  _ Jiang has half the Vancouver crew around him, looking like a king in his own right as they all speak a mix of Quebecois and hockey stats, foreign either way to Proko’s ears. Jiang bellows his name as he passes, hails him a conquering hero until he finds himself tucked up beneath Jiang’s arm, gamely swallowing all the liquor Cheng2 pours in. 

“You’re such a fucking idiot!” Jiang shouts in his ear, good-natured and  _ pissed.  _ “Gonna fuckin’ thank me later, thickhead!” He ruffles Proko’s hair violently and shoves him off, sends him on his merry way with the inside of his throat on fire. 

He finds K on top of a pile of wrecked-up cars, a display of modern art so fantastic that he had to have dreamt it, dragged it with gritted teeth from the blackness that no longer called itself  _ Cabeswater.  _ If Jiang looked like a king then K looks like an  _ emperor,  _ like he rules the whole night and no one could stop him, not even if they tried. Haloed in fireworks and hollow-eyed like a nightmare. Proko’s mouth goes dry, and then wet. 

K’s got his arms around a couple of townie girls, pretty to a fault with long tanned legs bared by their miniskirts. They’re more interested in their phones than him, snapping front-flash selfies of their sharp cheekbones and blown pupils, but they’ve each got a hand resting dangerously close to his groin and don’t complain at how he’s rubbing his fingers over whatever skin he can reach, teeth bared in a feral grin.

Proko stands, waits, at the foot of the mass of broken, twisted fenders and bodies and tires. He doesn’t clear his throat. Doesn’t tap his foot. Doesn’t fidget. K will get to him when he gets to him; he likes making Proko wait. 

Proko… likes what K likes. Likes being told what to do. Likes to know he’s on  _ K’s  _ schedule, not the other way around. He wasn’t  _ born, _ he was  _ created. _ He has a purpose. It’s K. It’s always been K. 

K stares down at him, grins, nuzzles at Townie 1’s throat and sets the edge of his thumbnail against Townie 2’s jugular, makes her shiver. 

Finally, finally, after Proko’s stood so long that he feels both dizzy and dangerously sober, K shoves the girls off, jerks his chin and tells them to scram. They go easily, almost gratefully; Proko’s sure their pockets are full of party favors, which are all townies want from a guy like Joseph Kavinsky, anyway. 

K doesn’t call for him to come up, so Proko stands still and waits for him to make a move. 

He ambles down off of his automobile alp with the nimble grace of a wildcat, lean and luminous-eyed. 

Proko stands still, stands still, stands still until K’s got an iron-banded grip around his wrist, and he goes easy when K tows him along, towards the edge of the field, away from the fire and the people and the noise. He’d let K do whatever he wanted to him. There’s no reason to be afraid. 

K leads him into the brush, the snake grass, down far into the dark. He doesn’t falter, but Proko stumbles a couple of times, turns his ankle with a little cry but keeps walking anyway. They end up in a smaller field. There’s a blanket on the ground, a bottle of Standard, a Bowie knife like the kind they sell in the case at Big Jim’s Liquor and Novelties down by Nino’s Pizza. Proko wonders how long K’s been planning this. 

He’s still not afraid. 

“Get on your knees,” K says softly; the only light comes from the moon high above their heads. It makes everything feel unreal. 

Proko gets on his knees. 

K goes to the blanket. K picks up the knife. 

Proko breathes evenly, his heart beating steadily. The world stretches out, black and unknowable, all around.  _ The still point of the turning world,  _ he thinks, and is very, very still. 

“Are you afraid?” K asks him, barely audible; the knife’s blade, unsheathed, flashes in the moonlight. 

“No,” Proko says, his palms flat to the tops of his thighs. He isn’t anything, unless K tells him to be. 

“Open your mouth.” 

The knife’s blade is not particularly wide, but Proko is very aware of the double edge of its tip. It lays flat on his tongue, the very point of it close to his uvula. He breathes through his nose and looks up at K, whose face is cast all in shadow. It would take nothing— the jerk of a wrist, the thrust of an arm,  _ anything.  _ It would take nothing for K to just… 

Proko doesn’t think he’s ever felt so turned on, aroused to the point of nausea, dizzy, afraid he may really get sick right there at K’s feet because the world is fucking spinning and he could die right here right now but he’s not  _ scared.  _

K laughs once, sharp and strained.  _ He  _ sounds afraid. He sounds furious. He sounds  _ tired,  _ and Proko doesn’t know what to do with that. “I don’t know what to do without you,” K murmurs, hushed. It is a declaration, a sweetness Proko is unprepared for, and he misunderstands with a syrupy jolt of adrenaline before K continues, and he recognizes his own words parroted back at him in a flat monotone. “I want to do whatever you tell me to do.” K eases the knife back, cool metal on Proko’s tongue growing wet with his saliva. “I know I should want more than that. I just  _ don’t.”  _

The knife is out of Proko’s mouth and K tosses it aside, cups Proko’s face in both of his hands. “Did you mean it?” It’s hoarsely said; K’s hands are shaking. For the first time, Proko considers that maybe K is afraid of himself, even if Proko isn’t. 

Proko blinks; his eyelashes are wet. K’s touch feels so good on his bare skin. He nods restlessly, and wants to open up K’s pants but doesn’t, because K hasn’t told him to yet. 

“Fuck,” K exhales hard out his nose. He’s in Proko’s lap then, the blanket and liquor faraway, forgotten like the knife. K shakes like he’s out of control. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck,”  _ K shakes like he’s crying, maybe, and Proko  _ aches  _ to touch him. To hold him. He waits, though. He wasn’t made to make his own decisions. 

“Touch me,” K rasped.  _ “Touch _ me.” 

Proko didn’t need any more sweet talking. 

Everything on K was delicately-wrought, finely-made; Proko was the furthest thing from a poet but he felt like he could write fucking  _ sonnets  _ to the ledge of K’s collarbone, to the dip of his concave stomach, the veins running down his sweetly-curved forearms. 

He looked like someone had dreamt  _ him  _ up, and Proko was so focused on applying himself to the task of  _ touching  _ him that he didn’t notice the rain until it was a deluge, beating down on his back and dripping into his eyes. K kept gasping, sputtering, water slicking his lips. Proko kissed him, didn’t know how to stop. 

“Don’t leave me behind,” he pleaded, thrusting down into the open cradle of K’s thighs. He wrapped his left hand around the back of K’s skull to protect him from any rocks, felt his knuckles scrape and tear with the friction of his thrusts combined with the weight of K’s body, the force of him tossing his head back and groaning with it. 

“You’re  _ mine,”  _ K said, savage and low, hands twisting painfully in Proko’s hair, a livewire of feeling. “As if I’d let you be anybody else’s. You’re  _ mine.”  _

“Yours.” Proko agreed, and buried his face into K’s throat, riding out the feeling. 

Thunder crashed overhead; the first summer storm of the season. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
